Once Upon a Highland Autumn (16 page)

“The gown is fine, but what fan to go with it, and which gloves?” Devorguilla fussed, circling Megan.

“And slippers, my lady,” Miss Carruthers said. “I think the plain cream ones for Lady Alice, and the pink for Lady Margaret, to match the rosebuds on her gown. Perhaps she might also wear pink rosebuds in her hair. Shall I send someone out to pick some?”

“I’ll go,” Eleanor said, rising again. “I’ll not have some ham-handed servant molesting my roses.” She grinned at Megan. “Shall I bring the red ones, just to shock them?” she asked, and cackled at Devorguilla’s gasp.

Devorguilla herself was dressed in a glamorous gold-colored satin, with silver lace at the bodice, sleeves, and hem, which suited her very well, made her look every inch the elegant and wealthy mother of two lovely and well-dowered daughters.

Alanna rose gingerly from the dressing table, her towering coiffure threaded through with ribbons, pearls and garnets, and Megan was pressed into the chair for her turn. She winced at the tug of the comb. Eleanor returned with a basket of rosebuds—pink ones—fragrant and still warm from the late-day sun. Megan buried her nose in one of the soft blooms. The maid deftly wove them into the artful nest of curls.

“Shall we go over the rules?” Devorguilla asked.

“A lady does not dance with the same partner more than twice, preferably once,” Alanna said.

“Unless he is a gentleman we have hopes of,” Devorguilla said. “Then it may be twice, and you may allow him to fetch you a cooling drink, or stroll around the perimeters of the room with him.”

“Which gentlemen?” Megan asked.

Her mother held out a gloved hand, and Miss Carruthers put a sheaf of pages into it. “The Marquess of Merridew is the most important gentleman, of course. Lord Findlay is second—he has ten thousand a year, and two estates.”

“Lord Findlay is nearly fifty!” Megan said, and earned a sharp look.

“Does that really matter when a he has such a fortune? Of course, Viscount Salisbury is a dear friend to the Prince Regent, and has an estate by the sea. He would be a fine catch for Alanna, perhaps, since he’ll certainly be an earl eventually. The Earl of Markham is recently widowed. He didn’t even know he wanted a new wife until he met you, Megan, but he is still in need of an heir. Can you imagine being the mother of future earls?”

“Not at all,” Megan murmured. “Is there anyone fun coming? What of Miss Parkhill and her brother, or Thomas Fraser from Craigmile?”

Devorguilla sent her a pointed look. “If they do, you will ignore them. It would not do to give them the notion that they may hope, when there is no hope at all.”

“Will Lord Rossington be in attendance?” Alanna asked, and Megan felt her heart flip in her breast. She shot her sister a silencing look.

“Ah, Rossington,” Eleanor said with a sigh. “I’m sure he cuts a very fine figure in the country dances. It will be a pleasure to watch him—if he attends at all, of course.”

“I am sure he will not,” Megan said, though she hoped he would. She felt hot blood creep up her cheeks at the thought of seeing him again. She would refuse to dance with him, of course, if he asked. Nor would she acknowledge him with anything more than a regal and dismissive nod of her head as she swept past him.

“Now, if we work together, we shall easily provide just the right encouragement the gentlemen we favor will require in order to come to the point,” Devorguilla continued. “Which gentleman will you have, Margaret?”

Megan could not imagine being married to any of the men her mother mentioned—and other than her fortune and her connections, there was no reason at all why they would want to marry her, either. They certainly could not love her if they knew nothing about her besides her worth in pounds sterling. “How will I know who will suit me? It is too soon to know if we might eventually love them,” she said. It would be quite impossible to love any of them in fact, since her heart already belonged to Eachann.

Miss Carruthers trilled a dry, humorless laugh. “Love? Love has nothing to do with marriage in the aristocracy. A successful match is about convenience, connection, and cash. It will be most
convenient
if these noble gentlemen find a suitable marriage partner here in Scotland. Many gentlemen cannot abide the London Season. You have excellent
connections
, and a suitable dowry—
cash
. You are also presentable, in good health, and available. Those
facts
are enough to explain their interest in you.
Love
does not enter into it.”

“Goodness,” Alanna said, looking worried. “You make it sound as if they were considering the purchase of a pair of coach horses.”

Eleanor cackled. “Or a brood mare in Lord Markham’s case. I daresay if you don’t like him, there will be quite a crush of hopeful gentlemen at the dance tonight. You have become known as the Belles of Dundrummie—that’s what they’re calling you, all these English hunters. My maid heard it in the village. I daresay you’ll be swept off your feet at this dance or perhaps the next, but either way, you’ll be wedded and bedded and off to England before the snow flies.”

Megan felt horror roll through her breast. Alanna paled.

“Which gentleman would you choose?” Alanna asked her aunt, her expression stricken.

Eleanor patted her hand. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? It’s a choice you have to live with forever. If you choose an old man, he might do you the favor of dying while you are still young enough to marry again, and you get to keep his money for yourself if there’s no other heir. I’ve had three husbands. The first I married for money—the second one, too. My third husband was your uncle, and I married him for love, and came to live here.” Her eyes grew misty. “He died after only a decade, which was not nearly enough time together. I could not bear to wed again after Jamie, and now I am far too old. Love does indeed matter, if you ask me.”

“Really Eleanor, you should not be filling their heads with such talk,” Devorguilla said. “Money goes a far way in making any man bearable.”

“Well, then I would have chosen Rossington, myself,” Eleanor said. “A handsome man, wouldn’t you agree, Megan?”

“Handsome is as handsome does, my lady,” Miss Carruthers said in rolling tones. “He is apparently not the marrying kind. I understand that he is much sought after, but refuses to be snared.”

“Where did you hear that?” Alanna asked.

Eleanor laughed. “She’s been listening to the servants’ gossip. Apparently, the poor earl has been as beset as yourself, Megan—the innkeeper at the inn has been receiving floods of callers, and such a great number of scented notes of invitation for his noble guest that he hasn’t room to store them all. He’s been forced to lay in a supply of tea, fine French wines, and brandy for all the esteemed callers. When Rossington is out, which he invariably is, they insist upon waiting for him, and supping on fine fare. Mr. Fraser told our cook that if he doesn’t go broke, he may just make a fortune. He doesn’t know whether to be pleased as punch that the earl is here, or dismayed at the disruption. The villagers are taking odds on who Rossington will marry—that is, when they aren’t speculating on Megan’s choice.”

“Me? I’ve given no one any cause to gossip!”

“Of course you haven’t,” Eleanor agreed. “You’ve been all that’s proper, as you should be. But if you were to show Lord Rossington just the slightest favor tonight, I stand to win a small fortune.”

“Aunt Eleanor!” Megan gasped.

Eleanor smiled smugly. “Shall we try inviting him for dinner again?”

Megan sniffed. “Absolutely not. I’d rather wed Lord Merridew!”

“Truly? Why, I think he is an excellent choice,” Devorguilla said with a bright smile. “He is certain to be at the dance tonight. Shall I invite
him
to dinner?”

Megan felt her stomach lurch. “No! It was a foolish thing to say. I didn’t mean it.”

“Then who?” Devorguilla asked, staring at Megan. “Which gentleman will it be?”

“There must be one,” Miss Caruthers prompted. The room fell silent, until the only sound was the ticking of the Ormolu clock on the mantel, and every eye was fixed on Megan’s flushed face.

She shut her eyes. “Can we not just dance, and decide tomorrow?”

“A fine idea,” Eleanor said. “Shall we go? It wouldn’t do to be too late. All the best suitors might be gobbled up by other young ladies.”

The maid placed gloves and fans into each lady’s hands as they filed through the door, girding them for the tender battle ahead.

Megan regarded the fan balefully. She would have preferred a good, sharp dirk.

S
urely the floor actually tilted as the Belles of Dundrummie entered the assembly rooms, and every gentleman in the place hurtled across the room toward them.

Alanna grabbed Megan’s arm and drew a breath, scanning the faces, drowning in the cacophony of greetings, compliments, and requests for dances. Abandoned, the other ladies present glared daggers at the McNabb sisters, and flicked their fans open with a crack as sharp as a rifle shot, and whispered behind them, their eyes hard as bullets.

“What will we do?” Alanna whispered. “There must be a hundred gentlemen here.”

Megan felt her stomach shrink. She wished she could bolt back out the door, but her mother and Miss Carruthers were standing firmly behind them, blocking any hope of escape. She took a breath and scanned the crowds. She’d gone to a cattle auction with her father once. It had been almost as noisy as this, with every bidder competing for one of the prize Glenlorne heifers. She knew now how the poor creatures felt.

“May I reserve the cotillion?” Lord Findlay asked, jostling his way to the front of the crowd.

“I shall take the Scotch Reel, if Lady Margaret is willing,” Lord Salisbury cried above the din.

“May I fetch you a glass of sweet cider, my lady?” someone asked.

“Would she prefer punch?” another voice demanded.

“Or perhaps lemonade?”

Alanna was equally beset, equally tongue-tied.

“It won’t do to hover in the doorway,” Lady Eleanor said firmly, guiding her nieces through the crush, which parted obligingly when she rapped a few shins with her walking stick. They found chairs and sat, and Eleanor stood firmly in front of them, on guard, her fierce glare—and her walking stick ready—reminding the mill of desperate suitors that they were at a social event, and poor manners would not be tolerated. Eleanor arranged partners the first dance only—Merridew settled for Alanna when Salisbury claimed Megan for the opening reel.

Jane Parkhill sat down beside them. “Good evening. What a dreadful crush there is! I hadn’t imagined that a country dance would be so dreadfully popular. I fear it will get quite hot in here before very long.” She was already plying her fan as she searched the crowds.

Megan followed her gaze. “Who are you lo—”

But the room tilted yet again. This time feminine squeals filled the air, and satin gowns swirled and dancing slippers hissed on the polished floor as the ladies rushed toward the door.

Kit Rossington had arrived. Megan’s breath stopped, and she stared at him. He wore traditional English evening dress, exactly the same as most of the other gentlemen here—but surely his shoulders filled his coat to greater breadth, and the soft brocade of his waistcoat added a touch more dash than the plain ones of the other men. Was his hair longer, his face darker? He shone in the candlelight.

She didn’t even realize she’d risen to her feet until Alanna caught her arm.

But by then, his gaze had come full circle around the room to her, and their eyes locked. The shock of recognition pierced her, and the instant memory of her body sprawled on his in the heather. It was a second or two, no more, and then the crush of females closed in and blocked her view, and Alanna tugged her back to her seat.

“What’s wrong with you?” her sister said, and Megan swallowed and drew a ragged breath as her heart started beating again.

“Nothing,” she managed. “I just wanted to see who had come in and caused such a fuss.” She snapped open her fan and hid her hot cheeks behind it.

“He looks different,” Alanna said softly.

“He looks like a Highlander,” Eleanor said, looking as besotted as every other lady in the room. “All he needs is a kilt and a bonnet.”

Megan’s heart sighed, but she straightened her spine and plied her fan in rapid little beats. “Nonsense. He’s as English as a man can be.”

“Ah, but those eyes,” Eleanor said. “He looks as if he’s grown used to gazing out across the hills.”

His eyes appeared to Megan to be fixed on the simpering young lady before him, the daughter of an English marquess. His countenance was polite, but hardly conveyed joy. He did not smile as he made his bows, working his way into the room, avoiding entanglement with any one lady.

Megan realized she was holding her breath again, half hoping he would come to her. He was certainly moving in her direction. Then Edward Parkhill and Lord Merridew waylaid him, and he was forced to stop and speak to them.

Megan felt a fizzle of disappointment. The music began, and Salisbury bounded over to present his hand. Megan let him draw her onto the dance floor.

She felt Rossington’s eyes upon her, but she dared not glance at him. She concentrated on counting the steps, making the turns and hops precisely, smiling vapidly at her partner all the while, though in truth his face did not even register in her mind. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she was aware only of Rossington.

She caught his eyes upon her as she turned, looking at her over the gaggle of ladies. Her heart threatened to burst from her chest.

The dance ended, and she dipped a curtsy, and swayed on her feet. “You look dreadfully flushed, Lady Margaret. Can I fetch you something to drink?” Salisbury asked kindly.

“Please,” she managed. She needed air, space. When he stepped away, she hurried toward the door that led to the small balcony. It was against her mother’s rules, leaving the well-lit and carefully chaperoned confines of the assembly room, but she slipped out into the velvet darkness anyway, and drew a long breath of cool air.